Trial By Fire
by caracal45
Summary: England simply wanted to give America what he wanted. The brat didn't want to have England in his life? Fine. He can make it happen, but maybe going bar hopping before the fact wasn't as good an idea he thought it was. He hadn't thought that his magic could backfire so horribly. He certainly hadn't expected a redhead monster from another universe to pull through to his. 2p Hetalia
1. Trial By Fire

Aiden- Ireland

Alastair- Scotland

Awstin- Wales

Oliver- 2p England _

"Bloody bastards… a-all of them. That damnable America, he and that froggy cheese eater just love making my life a hell." The personification of Great Britain muttered as he picked his way through his own capitol. He felt a small glimmer of satisfaction for once that his home was small again. He could afford to spend more time in one place unlike the major powers such as China, Russia, and America. They were so large that they were almost constantly moving around. His small island allowed him to get to know his cities like he knew his ale. Unfortunately, he had to use his knowledge of both tonight.

"God, and those w-wankers Alastair an' Aiden- they just encourage the others. At least Awstin is staying out of it for once. " He stumbled through the streets and checked his location at the next signpost. He was pretty sure he was going the right way but then he was sure he was heading home when he blacked out and woke up in Geneva as well. To this day he had no idea how he managed to cross the channel in his drunken state. "Ruddy jerks, the whole lot of them!" A hearty "Aye!" was shouted from the other side of the street by another lost soul before they both continued on their midnight shambling.

After a few wrong turns and a rough scuffle with a shady looking rubbish bin, England finally made it back to his own house in the heart of his heart. He managed to unlock his door and enter the parlor but that was the extent of his abilities. The door was shut and he tumbled into the wall as he tried in vain to make his way upstairs.

"W-what did I do wrong? Why do-does everyone leave?" England thought maybe it was his surly attitude but that was nothing he could change no matter how hard he tried to be a right proper gentleman. Could the others not see how hard he tried? Maybe he was to stand-offish? France always came back for more though and his brothers gave more than they got from him. The question burning in his head at the moment was why he being driven to the pubs when nothing had changed in his daily life. He and America had gotten in a row but that was nothing new either. England hiccupped and had a nagging thought that maybe that was why he was getting pissed tonight and every night he decided to check up on his old charge.

He had an idea of what had happened tonight. He was too drunk to remember most of this fight but he remembered others and if they were any indication then they had ended up fighting. He didn't need to be told that America still held resentment towards him. He knew that as well as everyone else and his brothers constantly brought it up because they knew how much losing America had hurt him. Hell, he still felt a little anger towards the child he had raised. Whenever they fought, it was mutually assured destruction. They both knew exactly what to say to hurt the other and but now America had gone too far. England could vaguely recall the brat saying that he wished he'd never been found by England.

"Fine America. If that is how y-you really feel then let's see if w-we can ar-arran- make that happen then!" He couldn't find the stairs to get to his room and he would swear to the fact that they kept changing location on him, however, the stairs leading to his basement were much easier to find as he had run into the door on one of his previous drinking binges and broken the ornate door. Now he began the momentous task of traversing the stairs. He had to call upon his old pirate days though because they were swaying more than a flag in a windstorm. He managed to make it to the level ground before he had to turn over and retch on the cement flooring.

Most of England's magical friends left at the sound of the drunken Brit almost falling down the stairs but Flying Mint Bunny and Unicorn didn't want to leave him in this state. They had seen from past encounters that the nation could be very violent not only to others but he could also try to harm himself. He never remembered doing it and he never tried while sober so his magical friends just tried their best to keep him safe while he was inebriated and avoided the subject when he brought it up. Mint Bunny stayed because she would always be there for England, her longest friend. Unicorn stayed because he had the magic. Hook and the Leprechaun had small traces yes but nothing like the sheer force Unicorn had.

One thing England had never tried while pissed was his magic and as much as his friends loved him they knew England's magic tended to work out in funny ways if they wanted to phrase it kindly. England attempting magic while drunk was bound to lead to even worse results than usual.

Flying Mint Bunny and Unicorn shared a look before Unicorn walked forward with an exasperated snort. He butted his head carefully against England's shoulder and gave a questioning neigh. England was still flipping through his spell books and didn't look up to speak to his long-time friend.

"No. It's nothing b-bad so don't worry so much."

Unicorn gave another snort similar to the one directed at Flying Mint Bunny a few minutes ago.

"Hey! The git'll be fine i-it's what he want'd anyway," England's speech was starting to slur. He'd have to hurry if he wanted his drunken mind to be able to justify this. He flipped to another page and started reading the requirements and results. As much as he hated America at the moment even he couldn't justify making the poor boy both blind and impotent. He flipped to another page.

That statement earned him a disbelieving look and a pleading whinny.

"He'll be fine. The damnable brat always is. With my luck he'll find a way out of it and come screaming at my doorstep by some ungodly hour tomorrow morning."

Unicorn stomped his foot and nickered angrily. He even bit down on the book England was reading and pulled it upwards out of his grasp.

"Fine fine, a simple tran-train-pot? Transport! A transportation spell. I'll bring him back after a f-few days. Will that satisfy you lot?"

With a glance at Flying Mint Bunny they both agreed that was the best they were going to get from England in this state. He consented with another small neigh and gave back the book.

England grabbed it with a huff and clumsily flipped through the pages to the proper spell. He was starting to sway on his feet and with his speech going he had to act fast. He snapped his fingers and held his hand out. Flying Mint Bunny appeared with his chalk and after depositing it in his hand she flew off again to hide. Unicorn stood by ready to help when this all went wrong.

It took a few more seconds than it should have for England to draw the spell circle but he kept having to redo parts that he either smeared himself in a drunken haze or that he simply drew wrong do to his pub hopping that night. Eventually he did get it right and at that point he stood up with the book grasped a little to firmly in his hands and after forgoing his usual black robes, started to read the spell.

Or at least he tried to. The words were stating to blur on the page and some of the old Latin was slipping form his mind. He muttered curses to himself and after a few adjustments tried to start again. This time he had much more success and the circle started to glow. Only it wasn't with England's usual bluish-white magic, no this was a deep red. Flying mint Bunny looked out from behind her hiding spot and she reacted with a blind terror. Flying over to England and trying to get him to stop but he was in the trance now simply reciting the words to weave his magic to his will. Unicorn neighed in horror and joined Mint Bunny in trying to halt England's magic. Before either could think to destroy the spell circle the room was doused in a blinding flash of white light.

England collapsed on the ground but thanks to flying Mint Bunny he avoided and head damage. Unicorn walked over and snorted with sadness. Just what had his friend done? Flying Mint Bunny chirped a question which Unicorn answered with a soft nicker. He laid himself down next to his friend and watched as Mint Bunny pet England's hair. England may feel like America's babysitter but he had never stopped to think about how his friends are his. They were getting ready to just wait it out and ask England in the morning, when he was sober, what he did when they heard a soft footfalls.

"God, what did that bastard try to pull now? Ha, European Alliance my ass Italy! Bringing Norway and the rest of those Nordic douchebags into this with only get you hurt even more!" A figure stepped out of the darkness and after his short but strong worded rant, took a look around his perceived prison. "Eh what a dump! I mean I get we're at war but really? This is the consideration you show your captured? I guess I should just be glad you didn't stick me with Germany's clingy ass or your overly flamboyant brother. Hell, I might even have to thank you for this. It's almost roomy compared to that shithole I share with Canada! You think this is going to stop me? I'm the United States of America guys, you gotta do better than this if you want to keep me down!" By now he was running his hands along the walls and inspecting the ceiling for weak spots. He shrugged deeper into his worn bomber jacket and hefted a large wooden bat over his shoulder deftly avoiding the nails pounded into the end. He spat on the floor and turned to finally take in the rest of the room.

"Oliver? You too dude? Shit they really got us good," he walked over to the man lying on the floor while dropping his bat in the process. America had no real intentions to help but it never hurt to see the extent of the damage. Whatever had managed to take out England was worth inspecting. Crouching down to see the wounds for himself he was surprised to find not only the absence of blood but also no existing scars from any other previous battles that England had participated in.

It was then that he noticed the odd clothing the other man was wearing. Sure, Oliver never was one to conform to modern dress style, or even practical ones, but this man was in simple brown pants and a long-sleeve white shirt partially hidden by a green sweater. It was so simply boring that it was almost painful to think that Oliver was wearing it. This other man's hair was also darker more of a dirty blonde then the light locks he was used to. He had one last fail-safe. No matter what joke he was trying to pull Oliver never changed one thing. His eyelids were pried open and inspected. America pushed himself away from the imposter and snatched up his bat in preparation of an attack.

He held his stance above the slumbering man but as no movement was made he began to lose interest and with a final glance at the doppelgänger he moved along the walls again until he came across a book lying innocently on the floor.

"The hell is this?" He spared yet another glance at the other man and hurriedly picked the book up. He briefly scanned the page it was opened to and then almost let the book fall from his grasp as a large smile threatened to split his face in two. He clutched the book tightly as he let out a cackling laugh. "So you wanted to get rid of someone in your universe," he spat again at the end of his question before he moved over to the stairs he was finally able to locate. He started to climb, "you have no idea what you just fucked with." America burst through the broken remains of the door and headed to what he guessed was the main entryway.

Leaning his bat against the wall, he pulled down his red-lensed sunglasses and searched his pockets for a matchbook. As he finally located it he just unfolded it and scrapped all the matches on the elegant table and then held the flames up to the book he had found. The flames licked up the ancient paper and started to truly catch ablaze. He threw the book into the house and watched as the flames caught on the furniture. Soon the house was engulfed in the fire and America walked away with his bat slung over his shoulder, shades over his eyes, and a smirk on his face. "Let's cause some damage."

**Well.**

**That's certainly a sudden turn of events.**

**Oh god. Did I just write 2p? I think I did. Send help, I think I'm having a fangirl overdose.**

**The reasoning I have for the 2p's having different names is simply to help keep them straight. 2p England (Oliver) belongs to beek-why. She also gave me the idea to have other names for the other nations. Oliver was her name for 2p England. As far as I know the others don't have names but feel free to correct me if I'm wrong. We'll meet the other 2p's in the next chapter! (Hopefully.)**


	2. Trial By Steel

Upon waking up he was assaulted by the bright flashes that danced behind his eyelids. He tried to rouse himself into movement but he couldn't even open his eyes. It was overly hot even by his recent heat wave standards and it was only getting warmer the longer he stayed on the ground. His only relief right now was the cold pavement he was laying on. It was the brightest flash of all and the feeling of small pieces of rubble on his back that finally managed to rouse him out of whatever stupor that affected him.

Brilliant eyes opened up to a gray world where the only color now was the bright orange of the burning fire. Bolting upright he struggled to make his limbs cooperate to his frenzied commands. The fire was licking closer and closer as he struggled to get his bearings and figure out an escape route. He was in the basement, that he could tell, but there were cracks and holes in the ceiling. There was the obvious scorch marks where flaming debris had fallen and ignited the furniture in the basement but the others were a mystery. He wondered what could happen to a building that would leave those kinds for marks but in the end had to forgo his curiosity and move to the stairs at the side. The flames were quickly licking up the wooden stairs and as he hurried up them they were suspiciously shaky.

They gave out as soon as he reached the entryway. He looked back and watched them tumble into the raging inferno below. There was no time to stop, however, because the rest of the house was in the same predicament as the basement. Everything was burning. He needed to leave but he still wasn't sure where he was or the location of the door. As more debris fell from the above floors he knew he needed to move. It was now or never. He ran off in a blind direction just hoping to hit a window or a door or even a bit of wall broken down enough he could break through.

The flames were licking at his flesh as he tore through the flaming halls. He had time to wonder just how big this house could be before the ceiling collapsed on him again and he had to dart out of the way of more fragments of burning wood. He glanced around franticly for an exit of any sort at this point. The smoke was becoming so think it was getting hard to breathe and tears were forming in his eyes. Things were getting blurry both from the tears and now oxygen deprivation. He didn't want to die like this, burned to death in a building because he couldn't escape. That would just be a tragedy. With a loud hacking cough and a sudden burst of energy, he raced to the left and found himself at the foot of yet another staircase. This one seemed to be in better condition and he decided to risk it. He bounded up the stairs and made it to the next floor up. Now he was on the second floor of a burning building and he still had no idea how to get out. Maybe he should have thought this through more…

There was no going back now though so he continued down the hall he found himself in and checked the doors to see if he could open any. He knew not to touch the handles in a fire and with how hot it was downstairs he wasn't going to take any chances. Kicking the first door open that he came across, he finally was able to find window that he could get out of. He ran over and was about to crash through it before he stopped and instead of using his fist he used his elbow which was covered, in fabric but it was still better then bear skin. He slammed into it with all the force he could muster and was rewarded with a sore elbow and a coughing fit but the window was open and it lead to a rooftop terrace.

All the plants were sure to have been beautiful in their prime but now it was just depressing to see the already dead flowers catch fire from the loose embers dancing in the air. Know the full scale of the fire was able to be seen. The whole city was bathed in an eerie red glow and flames were quickly devouring the city but the most devastating by far was the craters in both buildings and the ground. Bombs. They were bombing the city. So America was in what he could only guess was a war zone, stuck on the roof of an unknown building, and he still had no idea what city the building is located in. All he knew at the moment was the feel of the flames and the sounds of plane engines drowning out the clang of metal in the streets below him.

He was covered in so much soot and ash he was almost unrecognizable but he real problem now was getting away from this burning building. The only way off the roof that he could see was to jump to another roof at the side. The garden was luckily close to another building but the roof was a sloped tiled thing with no way to effectively hold on. There was a window at about chest height but he would have to jump up to reach it. As he heard the floor beneath his started to groan under its own weight he knew he had no time left. It was now or never. He took a running leap and as he came upon the edge of the building he vaulted himself up onto the small ledge surrounding the small garden and pushed off as hard as he could to get the maximum distance possible.

He cleared the gap but instead of crashing through the glass like he anticipated, he never made it that far and instead was now hanging on for dear life from the windowsill. It was simply a plank of wood nailed up outside the window and he could feel the wooden splinters digging into his hands but he still doubled his efforts to pull himself up into the other house. He lost his grip with one hand but with his amazing strength she was still able to hold himself up as he readjusted his grip. Then he finally managed to get an elbow over enough to again break the glass and crawl in as well as he could.

As he landed on the floor America noticed the light haze of smoke in the air. This building was catching fire as well. He needed to move fast to get down and out in time. He barreled through the door blocking him from the hallway and thumped down the set of stairs that he found. Blasting out the front door he was met with the burning nighttime skyline and bodies littering the street. Many still held weapons but they were old fashioned defenses like swords and knives. A few had a small handgun in their grasp but many simply forwent the firearms. Alfred could still hear the clang of metal and horse hooves for some reason so he armed himself with whatever he could find but stuck with his preference for guns, taking all he could find as well as a hefty sword. Now armed to the teeth America began to make his way over to the neighing of the horses and the clash of metal.

"Just where the hell am I? Is this some weird European country? It looks kind of familiar but I just can't place it. It can't be a Middle Eastern country could it?" He started to ramble to himself as he snuck around to the end of the street. From there he had a good vantage point as the street he was on was partially obscured by the rubble of a fallen house. What he saw made him gasp in shock.

Soldiers mounted on horseback and covered in blood were slaughtering the people how were trying to fight them off. It was a massacre. The people how were trying to fight back from the ground were vastly outnumbered and outmatched. The soldiers were remorseless as well in their endeavored to conquer the pesky flies that just buzzed around them. They were killing all they could with no remorse for women or child. Alfred, for all his looting for equipment, had yet to see one of the soldiers dead on the ground. But for all their military and their ruthless acts, what surprised him the most was the flag they flew. It was Italy's.

The man himself was astride a massive red chestnut horse that seemed almost as frightening as its master. They both seemed to move as one and they were at the forefront of the march. Italy himself had traded his blue uniform for one of a simpler tan and his eyes were a rather odd red tinted purple. Even his hair seemed to be a darker red. Alfred noticed that unlike his men, Italy preferred to use daggers as his weapon. He would either throw them and sever a windpipe or stab an eye, or he'd wait for the enemy to get close thinking they had won only to cut his throat when he got too close. It was brutal to watch and America could feel himself getting sicker with every person they killed. This wasn't a war. It was an execution.

America decided that though it wasn't very smart, he couldn't just let these people continue to murder so needlessly. He checked his weapons then found a suitable spot in the debris. He took one of the guns and checked the chamber; he only had five shots left in this one. He would have to make them count. Carefully he looked over the massive rock pile he was hiding behind and took aim. He fired off a shot and one of the soldiers fell from his mount. The townspeople looked on in shock but the attacking forced only grew angrier and redoubled the efforts. Alfred popped back up and again fired off and watched as a soldier fell. Now as the defenders saw that the horseback riders were not invincible they started to fight in earnest. Women and children threw rocks into the posse of riders as the men tried to form a cohesive force to attack with. Soon, they had managed to take out some enemies of their own and Alfred came up again to shoot. He was about to pull the trigger when he saw those off violet eyes flash his way.

"Get him! He's hiding behind that god-awful excuse for a pile of shit. I want him alive. Go, now you idiots!" America saw him start to scream at his underlings but he couldn't snap out of it and start to run until he heard the hooves coming closer.

"Shit, shit, shit," America got up and tried to run but the horses easily outpaced him. Italy stayed where he was and watched his men work. Although the intruder tried to scamper away they caught up with barley an effort and he cracked a smile when a few of them lept off their horses onto the back of the assailant. They wrestled him to his knees and kept him in a kneeling position as Italy trotted his horse over. America fought but he didn't want to give away his greatest secret quite yet. He was sure that the only Nations who knew of his strength were England, Canada, France, and Russia. Italy would have no clue what hit him.

The Italian guards all stood at attention when the personification of their country approached. One of the men holding America down reached out with one hand to grab him by the hair and force his head up. Italy reined his horse back to a stop in front of the group and took a good look at the man that his men were restraining. "A piece of scum that tries to upset my rule? Pitiful that you couldn't even do that right. Now, how about we see the pretty face that I get to cut up, hm?" The guards pulled his head up by the hair and poured a canteen of water over his head. America, not expecting such treatment, sputtered and shook his head as well as he could in their grasp as he tried to catch his breath. "So who gets to be my bitch tonight?" He smirked as he recognized the prisoner. "Well look at what we have here. I had thought that you would be smart enough to stay out of Italian controlled England, seeing all the trouble that man has caused us you should know that we would be strong here. But now I see that I was wrong. I guess that you really are that stupid. America I must ask, what happened to your beautiful red hair? Your eyes are different to. What a disgusting shade." He dismounted his horse and walked over to the kneeling man and drew out on of his many daggers. Italy bent down and shoved the knife to America's neck so hard that a few lines of blood trickled down. America himself tried hard not to flinch, knowing that it would only push the knife closer to his neck in the long run. Italy chucked at his plight and moved the pointed edge way. Alfred sighed in relief only to really jump when the dagger stopped an inch away from his left eye. The soldiers held him still as Italy slowly moved the tip closer. "I was looking forward to painting you in that wonderful red. I guess we'll have to start over from scratch. I just hope that you have enough blood in you."

America closed his eyes and tried to squirm away but he found that they were holding too tight for him to get away without using his strength.

"I'll take those ugly eyes of yours first, America. I'll tear you apart and then reform you as a weapon in my army. I will break you completely."

He tried harder to break away from their hold, he even let a little of his supernatural strength bleed into his struggles. He couldn't let them take his eyes. He wasn't even sure what was going on but he knew that without his eyes he would never survive and if what Italy said was true then he wouldn't stop at just the eyes.

They held his tighter and America could almost feel the knife digging into his eye socket before he finally lost it. He exploded upward in a burst of strength. Italy was knocked back but was able to remain on his feet. The guards that had been holding America were not so lucky. Alfred grabbed the one that had been holding his head steady and after tearing the man off him the soldier was thrown through the concrete side of a building. The structure shook with the impact and the hole that was made was much bigger than the man that went through the wall. Italy stared in shock at the gaping void and as the dust settled he could see the gore on the wall from the impact of soft flesh on previously unyielding stone. The other man was picked up and slammed into the ground so hard that his neck snapped. The other soldiers were running away and Italy jumped up and his horse and with a glance back at the terror in the streets started shouting orders to his men. They paid no mind to the commanding officers and instead turned tail and ran. Italy was in a rage now and had started to throw his daggers into the crowd of his men. America was able to get away from the Italians in all of the confusion.

Alfred took cover in one of the dilapidated buildings lining the street. He was able to find an empty one and he slid down the wall in exhaustion. This world was just so confusing and vengeful. Everyone seemed to want a fight and want blood to spill. He was shaking now and America had the sense to know that he was probably going into shock. He knew that this was the last place that he wanted to be stuck in but by now he was just so tired and his vision was starting to black out. He heard faint footsteps approaching and as he turned his swimming head to identify if it was a threat the black finally took over. All he was able to see of the man- and it was a man- was the impression of light blond and blood red.

**Yay! Internet cookies to anyone that can guess how found our poor lost hero. I'm probably having way too much fun with this but man it's nice to have a story that can be gritty and dark. **


End file.
